


Falling away from me

by DamadiSangue



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, resident evil revelations 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamadiSangue/pseuds/DamadiSangue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She touches his wrist, soothe it with light and warm fingers. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Would you like to dance?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Albert raises an eyebrow, surprised</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“What?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling away from me

Disclaimer: Albert Wesker, Alex Wesker and all other characters belong to Shinji Mikami, Capcom and those who hold the rights. The plot described here represents the author's copyright ( DamadiSangue )

 

"I will find peace of mind, in the dark and cold world of midnight."  
\- The world of midnight, Black Lagoon ending -

 

  
**Falling away from me**

 

**1.**

  
Life is a gift; by who, then, is not known.  
Alexandra doesn't have roots, but those that Umbrella has built piece by piece, diseased and rotting.  
Breathe in, listening to the quiet nail scrape of the infected against the walls of the cells.

Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch.

She imagines them as they move on the rough stone, bone splinters damaged, smooth, _greenish_ for decomposition.  
Alex tilt her head to the side, humming an old symphony.

_Jupiter._

One of the infected complains, a grotesque and gloomy howl - **_bloated._**  
Alex ignores him, drawing her madness in the dust.  
In the distance, a broken gramophone plays on, undisturbed.

  
The first time she had thought about it she was thirteen, when she was _killed._  
She had thought it would have been nice to stay _ **there,**_ suspended in that void without color.  
The bullet had opened her skull like a rotten fruit, widening bones and brains: slow. Inexorable. **_Relentless._**  
The hole had widened under the heat of combustion, a blackish and swollen corolla that had surrounded her head of red.

Thump.

Alex had fallen; Alex was **_dead._**

_But._

There's always a _but_ that fools you.

  
**Step inside, see the devil in I.**

She touches his wrist, soothe it with light and warm fingers.  
“Would you like to dance?”  
Albert raises an eyebrow, surprised  
“What?”  
Alex laughs, a sound incredibly light.  
“If there was a song that would be ours.”  
Wesker tilts his chin, listening to a melody that bleeds in every note.  
“Mozart.”  
“Symphony 41.” Alex follows him, playing with the collar of his jacket.  
A smile, a bite on the neck and on the heart.  
“Jupiter.” murmurs Albert, and his breathing is ice on her skin “Appropriate, I’d say.”  
Alex moans in his mouth every other response.

  
**2.**

  
Stuart doesn't have the courage to leave her.  
He wraps her shoulders in a blanket, supports the hot coffee at her side.  
Alex rocks forward, _hangs down._  
"Master Alex ..."  
Dried blood under her fingers, eyes half closed - opaque.  
"Maybe you should go back."  
Pale lips, dry. _Split._  
"Please."  
Alex continues to ignore it.

  
The second time she had considered the idea she had been thirty, when she realized that she would _die_ \- still.  
She observes her cells reproduce abnormally, the virus that _devours_ them, opening the membrane as they were _nothing._  
Black is the Progenitor, dark granules that explode before her eyes.  
She watch her healthy red blood cells split, blackish fingers that _shake shake shake_ \- plop; here are the red blood cells, crushed like insects, larvae of existence with no value.  
Alex bares her teeth, hides the sickly pallor even to herself.  
It takes so little.  
It would be enough to hearten and grab the knife nearby.  
It would be enough make a vertical incision, clear, _precise_ ; deep enough to let leak out all the infected blood.

_Blood of a frail and crippled God - imperfect._

It would be enough.

_But._

But.

  
**You and I, wrong or right.**

There is a heart hidden somewhere.  
There is a heart that beats; a blackish and swollen heart.  
There is a heart that is just a lump of empty cavities and poison.  
Alexandra could not say when that heart is dead, but under her hands it is full of promises and desires.  
She curls up against his side, closes her eyes.  
Albert moves in his sleep and search for her, then burying his face in her hair.  
Alex smiles at an istant that has no future.

  
**3.**

  
One of the infected managed to free himself.  
The walk is staggering; he dragging the stump of a leg that must have ripped from hunger pangs.  
Alex just breathe, statue of white and gold.  
The infected juts rotting fingers, opens his mouth: he wants the body and blood of the new god.  
Alex closes her eyes and waits.

  
The third time the thought had obsessed her had been when _he_ had died.  
In front of the ruins of Spencer Mansion Alex had become **_nothing._**  
Dust between her fingers, ruins in the heart.  
She sniffs the air, chasing the smell of defeat.  
Raccoon City is just a few weeks after the fall, but to Alex it doesn't matter; she _never_ cared.  
She exhale: a broken groan, a gasp that smells of regret and soot.  
One of the infected walks to her, the loose skin is a liquid wax on the bones.  
Alex studied him, she weighs him.  
The infected shortens the distance that separates them, _grin grin, grin grin_ , rubbing his teeth together.  
Alex holds a medal stained with blood and mud in her hands, closes her eyes.

_One bite and go: the recklessness of my own creation. It is a forgetting to which even Cronus was condemned by his own children._

The infected grazes her shoulder, opens - **_dismantles_** \- the jaw.

_But I'm not Cronus._

Alex opened her eyes, she inhales forcefully.

_I'm not an rotting and putrid old man._

The infected searchs the hollow of her neck, dripping **red** and **white** on her shirt - blood and drool. ( **Umbrella** )

_I..._

The arm snaps forward, _pulping_ a life that's not there anymore.  
The cowardice of the living is the only thing that keeps them alive.

  
**Traded to lie for the leverage.**

Condemned to a role; executed from a fate deaf to her requests.  
Alex grabs his wrist, _tightens._  
"You know I'm right."  
Albert gives his back, furious - _wounded._  
"No."  
"The Uroboros will fail."  
Sparks of red and gold, Albert seems almost crying blood and turns away.  
"You _want_ its fail."  
Alex holds her breath, she doesn't look down.  
"No." she murmurs, and fingers glide along his forearm, "No, but I think your judgment is not completely clear."  
Once Albert would accept the criticism. From her, at least.  
Once it would have _at least_ thought about it, starting the calculations again and proposing further clinical trials.  
Once he wouldn't turns away from her almost burned, hissing like a mortally wounded animal.  
"Did you see the results on the human DNA."  
"Yes."  
"And...?"

_No one will survive._

"The survival rate is too low. The virus has the same defects of the prototype Tyrant; heart exposed, deformed limbs, below average intelligence."  
Alex swallows, shortens the distance that separates them.  
"It will fail."  
Wesker moves back, bares his teeth.  
"There will be nothing; only a dead world, Albert."  
Alexandra go forward a few more steps, she manages to weave her fingers through his hair, forcing him to look at her - _to look each other._  
"Please."  
A supplication, a statement: the worst. _The best._  
Monsters doesn't need masks to ~~get hurt~~ love one another.

  
**4.**

  
Stuart called a team of cleansers, make sure they do their job well.  
Alex ignores them, elbows on her knees and looked away.  
The other infected screaming, writhing in their cells, sniff the adrenaline and blood - they want more.  
One of cleansers drops a bucket with fear and immediately search for Alex's eyes - _this is going to piss on him_ , think Stuart.  
Alexandra barely tilts her head, the tip of the hair that grazes her wrists.  
"Master Alex." Stuart calls.  
The infected shout, **bang bang bang** , slamming repeatedly against the steel doors.  
John (reads the card around the cleansers neck) picks up the bucket, mutters something under his breath.  
"Three days that you doesn't come out from the prisons." Stuart points out, impeccable.  
The infected emit a series of gruesome groans, dead skin that falls to the ground - _plof_. Oh, here's a cheek that goes away.  
John tighten his eyelids, drag himself as far as possible.  
The laughter of Alex is so harsh - _desperate_ \- that even infected choose to remain silent.

  
The fourth time?

_"From the information we have received ..."_

The fourth time she hadn't needed an instrument _to kill_ herself.

_"Situation of Tricell?"_  
_"Compromised."_  
_"Excella Gionne?"_  
_"In the current state of things she is called dispersed."_

The fourth time was enough to listen to the words of Stuart, leaving them to be absorbed by her heart as poison.

_"The laboratories?"_  
_"Compromises them too. Soon the BSAA will be on site to collect all the data left."_

The fourth time she was able to _really_ kill herself, cracking in an agony without sound.

_"My brother?"_  
_Stuart had swallowed, avoiding her gaze._  
_"Deceased."_  
_Silence._  
_"How?"_  
_"In a volcano. The members of the BSAA Sheva Alomar and Chris Redfield were in charge of the operation. At the time of death he seems to be infected with his own creation, the Ouroboros, which as we all know is sensitive to high temperatures."_  
_Alex stiffens her back, swallows guilt._  
_"I'm sorry, Master Alex."_

The fourth time was her most cruel punishment.

  
**I know you'll find your answers in the end.**

It may be the last time she hears him against her - _inside her_ \- and Alex hides her face against his chest in a shy gesture, almost childlike.  
Albert keeps moving between her legs, murmuring broken promises - confused, _tragic._  
Alexandra swallows fear and sank her nails into his back, in his _skin_ \- his blood under her fingers, on her mouth.  
There was something desperate in the way Albert had sought her, something _definitive._

_“You’re back.”_  
_Silence._  
_“Chris Redfield is on your trail.”_  
_“I know.”_  
_“The soldier wants his little girl back.”_  
_“He can’t.”_  
_Alex looks at him, supports the vial she was examining._  
_“I can smell **her** ; Bulgari and ambition.” _  
_Albert searchs for her eyes, tilts his head._  
_“Why?”_  
_“Of necessity, virtue.”_  
_“She’s young.”_  
_A dull sound, a restrained laugh._  
_“Not **so** young.” _  
_Alex bends her lips in a grimace, she lets go herself on the nearby chair._  
_“Perhaps this is a …” **Goodbye**? _  
_She would like to say; she would **really** have the courage to do it. _  
_“Alexandra.”_  
_Albert falls to his knees, brush her wrists._  
_“Look at me.”_  
_Alex turns away, close her eyelids._  
_“ **Look at me** , Alexandra.” _  
_She greets a Zeus who will not see the next sunrise._

Albert laps the soft curve of her breast, plays with her desire - a war with no winners or losers.  
Alex groaned indecent, then arching under his hands: impatient, damp, _voracious._  
Albert _laughs_ \- a soft sound, hoarse - and slides his fingers along her spine, to the buttocks, coaxing a space that Alex gives him shamelessly.  
“Albert.” she groans, and welcomes his thrusts, excitement a knot in her chest that burns, makes it impossible to think of anything but **_him_ ** \- to what he is doing and to the orgasm that shakes her hips.  
“I know.” It is all he says “I know.”  
A harder push - _more urgent_ \- another, his weight that crushes her down.  
Between her thighs Albert _comes_ , and Alex can feel on her skin (in her heart) the sticky of a forbidden feeling.  
She kisses his neck, jaw, cheekbones; she sinks against his body, gathering in what remains of an embrace slow and languid - _heartbroken._  
In silence, she listening while Albert’s regrets wetting her shoulder and heart.

  
**5.**

  
Takes courage to live,; takes courage to die.  
Whatever happens, there is always a catch.  
_Relativism_ , called it Albert.  
Monsters **and** heroes, black **and** white, right **or** wrong: worthless concepts, abstract images that Albert painted in blood and in the voice of those he crushed under the force of his objectives.  
Alex fixed the waves crashing against the cliffs, a sea of angry roars, blackish and swollen.  
The wind shakes knots of cold and rain in her hair, she wipes tears heavy with guilt and remorse.  
She puts a hand to her chest, then closed her fist.  
Maybe she can hold the crumbs of a heart already dead.

  
The fifth time is the last.  
Moira shouts something, shakes like a trapped bug.  
Claire stares: seeks to unite all the threads of the plot began years earlier, including a sister in search of the only family she had left, and a woman whose brother had been rather _all_ \- mate, rival, friend, _lover_.  
Alex returns to them a pale look, transparent as glass.  
_Why_ she seems to ask, and Alex smiles.  
"Destiny." She only says, holding the gun "A story that **must have** a different ending."  
"The history is decides by who stays." Claire replied, lowering the weapon "Winners and who is chosen to write it."  
Alex expands her smile, holds a laugh.  
"The way out of my brother was death ..."  
Moira moves back, Claire advances.  
The barrel of the gun is cold against her temple, a black and bottomless mouth.  
"... It will soon be mine too."  
Claire dilates the pupil, Alex's contracts hers.  
Dying is a little how to start living: you just need to find the courage to take the first step.

  
**Perish the Sacrament. Swallow, but nothing is forgiven.**

The pain left _confused._  
In the silence of the room Alex is like a stranger in her own body, a projection of herself.  
Asleep, numb; _**lost.**_  
She moves in slow motion, _crushed_ by a liquid stupor, blurry.

_It is not possible._

Isn't what we always repeat to ourself?  
Isn't this the first phrase that comes to mind, the most obvious?  
Alexandra breathe, but doesn't seem to actually do it.  
Her heart beats in a sick cavity, but it is only a perception of life.  
Her fingertip are cold and she touches sheets coldest - empty.

_Gregor Samsa ..._

Kafka looks, **_laughs._**

_He was cast aside by his sister, which lead to **his** death._

She shakes her head, trying to deny the awareness.

_**His** sister ..._

But she can't.

_**His** death ..._

Understanding _slays._  
The warm bubble of unconsciousness is torn from the truth that she can't ignored longer.  
The understanding is another form of pain - **_the worst;_** one that rips the eyelids and forces you faced with the reality of the facts.

_It's my fault._

Alex _would like_ to shout.  
Alex _would tear_ Kafka and crush it and reduce it to shreds and ...

_... And tell him that he is wrong. That she has not abandoned her brother._

Alex _would like._

_"It will fail."_  
_"No."_  
_"Please."_  
_Silence._  
_"Come with me."_  
_Uncertainty._  
_"Where?"_  
_"In Africa."_

No.  
A single word; one destiny.

_No._

Alex bows her head, silently **_crumbles._**  
What cruel Grete she has finally revealed herself; what horrible monster she has become.

_I left him. I left him to die. **Alone**. Like a dog. Like a mere **insect.**_

Alex just wants to go back and tell him that ...

_That?_

Alexandra closes her eyes (she **sees** him, **feels** him, **desires** him) and swallows blood and regret.

  
**0.**

  
Some are born in life, some in death.  
You can see a cruel parallel between the two stories: a ironic and ruthless symmetry.  
Claire looks to the lifeless body of the Overseer, hears questions that will never have an answer.  
"We have to get out." Moira shouts "It's all falling apart!"  
Chris would say that the monster is dead; that the nightmare is over.  
_Or more likely he would seek his answers at the bottom of a bottle of gin._  
But Claire is not Chris; she is not just muscle and power, a mind imprisoned by his own regrets: a mind that _had to be_ quiet to keep going, to fight a war that had destroyed everything.  
She slips with the eyes on Alex profile, pale and smooth.

_Only one woman has caused so much suffering._

Below her, blood and brains; above, a sky that is falling along with her kingdom.  
Moira pulls, Claire ignores.

_What did you do, Overseer?_

Her dead smile is the only thing that can answer.

  
**Some of us are destined to be outlived.**

"Death is the choice of cowards."  
"And avoid it for a living isn't also an act of cowardice?"  
Silence.  
"We all search for a way out, another way."  
"Uhm."  
"Even you."  
"No."  
"Liar."  
Cold fingers down her neck, her hair.  
"And then what would be my way out, _Alexandra?_."  
Red lips that seek him between the thighs, demanding on his skin.  
"I don't know."  
Albert laughs, a harsh sound, _unusual._  
"Now you're a liar."  
The truth is a knife that will kill them both.

 

 

 

 


End file.
